“Come on, Lara. It’s your old pal Roland.”
Vanessa’s loud laugh pierces the air, and I cringe. I decide to put it out there, see how much he knows. How much he’ll tell me.
“Who is Guy?”
His body stiffens, eyes narrow. “What?”
His sudden change in demeanor tells me more than his words ever could. “Molly met him after the show a while back, and—”
“Keep her away from him.”
“Who is he?”
“Gavin’s brother.”
I shake my head. “But why have I never seen him? How could I not know Gavin had a brother?”
“He went away a while back. I don’t know why he’s here now, but it’s the reason I told you to be careful. Stay away from him. Keep Molly away from him.”
“If he’s Gavin’s brother, that means—” I try to piece together this new information, understand how it relates to the show, to us.
Roland grips my arm so hard I wince. “Do what I say,” he growls.
I bend my elbow and push his hand away. “Don’t treat me like that. Tell me why.”
He exhales and releases me, but the anger is still there. I watch him circle the piano and start to play what he’s just written. “I’m not going to repeat stories about Gavin’s brother.”
“Okay…” Time to push. “We had a visitor last night.”
His hands pause over the keys, and his eyes cut to mine. “Guy?”
I nod. “It doesn’t seem to matter what we do. The theater isn’t that big.”
“What did he say?”
“That he knew me, that he’s been watching me. That he’ll be back and Molly and I should get some sleep in the meantime.” I circle the instrument to sit beside him, lowering my voice. “What do I do?”
His lips press together. Five measures pass before he speaks, voice calm. “I’ll talk to Gavin. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it? After all you’ve said?” My voice is a panicked whisper as my grip tightens. “I’ve seen the look in his eyes before.”
He hammers the final three chords and drops his hands to the bench, looking up at me. “Maybe it’s time for Molly to go.”
Acid rises in my throat, and my fists clench. I’ve never been so angry with Roland before. “That’s all I get? Half-stories and impossible ideas?”
“Calm down.” He reaches for my hand, but I jerk it back and stand. He stands with me. “I said calm down.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I hiss, my chest so tight it hurts to breathe. “I can’t send her away. I have nowhere to send her.”
He studies me then sits, playing a song I’ve never heard before. I watch him stringing together notes into a flowing melody like my world isn’t crumbling all around me.
“How do you like this?” he asks.
“It sounds like breaking dishes.” I spin on my heel to leave.
He stops playing and catches my arm. “I said for you not to worry about it. I’ll handle this situation with Guy. Just trust me.”
“I can’t do that anymore.”
I walk away from my old protector and out of the theater. I don’t know where Mark is, and I can’t wait any longer for a solution.
It’s time to take matters into my own hands and do what I can to save us.
“Here we are,” Freddie says, holding a heavy, dark-wood door for me. It’s accented with a clear glass panel and a gleaming brass H in the center.
Inside is an open, gas-lit space with white plaster walls and dark-wood molding and wainscoting. The floors are tiny white tiles arranged in a circular mosaic pattern with green accents in the center, and the entire place holds about forty small, dark-wood tables. It’s classic New Orleans.
A handful of diners are scattered around, and each sit before colorful foods on white place settings atop white linens. A dark-wood bar is situated in the far-right corner with six stools tucked beneath a glossy ledge.
The wall behind it is lined in mirrors and glass shelves that hold bottles of various shapes and colors above clear glassware. A stout man in white shirtsleeves stands beside a bright brass tap station in the center, chatting with a man in a black suit.
The man holds a cigar from which a thin line of smoke curls to the ceiling, and a crystal snifter filled with amber liquid is beside his hand. The low murmur of polite conversation fills the air, and it’s all so refined and beautiful. It’s completely foreign to me.
We don’t wait long at the entrance before another stout fellow with a crisp, white apron tied over a black vest greets us. He recognizes Freddie at once.
“Monsieur Lovel,” he says with a bow. “Right this way, sir.”
We’re led to a small table for two, and when we stop, the host holds my chair for me. Every muscle in my body is tense, but Roland taught me the trick of passing in society—follow one quick step behind everyone and mimic their behavior.
I sit and then jump back as our host places a large, white-linen napkin across my lap. Then he looks at me as if expecting me to say something. I’ve never been waited on, so I simply smile. A waiter steps up and hands a large cream-colored sheet to Freddie, who peruses it briefly.
“Today’s menu looks good,” he says. “And bring us whatever your sommelier recommends with each course.”
The waiter bows his head, and Freddie looks to me for approval. As if.
I simply smile again.
“Is that acceptable, darling?”
“Of course.” I have no idea what I just agreed to eat, but my stomach is in knots anyway.
Within moments a plate of little brown shells arrives. I’ve heard of escargot, but I wait until Freddie picks up the tiny fork to remove a pinch of dark meat from inside. He makes a satisfied noise, and with careful hands, I follow suit. I’m not sure what to expect, but the moment the rich, buttery morsel hits my tongue, I have to resist the urge to groan loudly with delight. No matter what it once was, this is fresh, buttery, and perfectly seasoned—a welcome change from my usual day-old hard bagels.
“Food & Wine named this as the premiere bistro in the city,” Freddie replaces his small utensil on the white linen. “They are trying to make New Orleans the Paris of the South.”
I nod as if I know what the heck he’s talking about. Freddie doesn’t question my assent as the small plates are removed and replaced with new ones containing a dark green and purple salad.
I watch him pick up the smaller fork and prepare to do the same when he stops moving, sighs, and looks directly at me.
I freeze.
Has he figured out my trick?
“You are so beautiful in this light.” He smiles, and I start to breathe again.
“Freddie.” I shake my head.
“I’ve dreamed of being closer to you, and now it’s happening.” He still holds his fork aloft, gazing at me instead of eating. I try not to appear impatient. My stomach is near growling.
“You have such talent. It must be difficult to only have one part in the show.”
I can’t tell him it’s the furthest thing from my mind. “I try not to let it get me down.”